For Queen and Country
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Of first meetings. My first feeble attempt at Mystrade!
1. Chapter 1

For Queen and Country

Chapter One

"Jesus Christ." Lestrade groaned in frustration as he watched Sherlock canter off down the street with John on his heels, leaving the New Scotland Yard to deal with damage control, yet again. It had been a messy case again, this time around.

Serial killer who brutally stabbed and mutilated his victims, in fact. Lovely job they had, Lestrade thought with a frown as he watched blood being washed off pale skin by the icy rain, red rivlets flowed away from the motionless body. Sherlock had already deduced the identity of the killer and had Lestrade put out an ABP for him but they had found the killer's next victim just a second too late and now Sherlock was on his tail like a bloodhound.

"Sir," Sally called out, jogging toward him. "should we set chase?" She nodded in the direction Sherlock disappeared to.

Lestrade nodded grimly. "Grab a few boys and get on with it." he sighed. "I'll handle the body and the statements until forensics get here." Sally nodded and dashed off, barking for a few idle DCs to follow.

Lestrade shuffled his feet a little, trying to retain a bit of blood circulation in them. Then he moved to cover the torn mound of flesh with a tarpaulin as another officer began unreeling the police tape. "Got to get statements, you know the drill." Lestrade spoke aloud to everyone, but nobody in particular gave inclination that they heard him besides a few grunts.

Lestrade could hardly blame them. They were out in a miserable rainstorm in the middle of the Winter, ankle-deep in coppery water, being led around and ridiculed by an extremely intelligent outside party. Pretty much sums up to be another terrifyingly horrible day.

Lestrade stumbled away from the body as forensics arrived on the scene, eager to get out of the freezing rain. He rubbed his hands together, grateful for the small source of heat to his almost completely numb hands. One spot of sunshine, though, Anderson had called in sick for the day, he had heard Sherlock say something about 'fantastic remedies for a cold' at the same moment Sally accused him of food poisoning.

He had thus decided that it _really_ wasn't his problem.

He nodded in the direction of the body to the new, hopefully more competent, team of forensics and dashed to where his officers were busy taking statements. "How's it coming along?" he asked when he approached.

"Slow." An officer replied sourly. "Nobody saw much of anything, they all got attracted by the blood that was washed out from the crime scene. By that time, the victim was already dead."

Lestrade sighed inwardly. "Well, keep at it. Who knows? Might find something useful." He could almost hear the other officers mentally wondering 'Useful for...?' Of course, he didn't have an answer for them, so he fished out his trusty police notebook and approached an idle-looking witness.

"Evening." he greeted, he might've usually approached with a 'good evening' but it was obvious that, that wasn't going to happen.

"Good evening." An oily voice responded cordially.

Lestrade finally looked the man up and down once, he sure as Hell didn't have Sherlock's god-like talent for observation, but he wasn't blind either. The man was considerably wealthy, that much could be gleaned from the obviously tailor-made suit he wore, not to mention his shoes... impeccably polished, but not cuffed. New shoes? Obviously expensive, probably worth two of Lestrade's suits, if not, more.

And here he thought only women took too much care for their shoes...

The way he moved, and the way he held himself shouted self-confidence. But he also seemed quite relaxed, so, born for greatness? He wasn't old, either, so he must be in the family business, or, he was some kind of genius... like Sherlock. And, if there was one thing that Lestrade envied immensely about the man, it was that he had an umbrella, and he obviously didn't. On a rainy day, fancy that!

He blew out a great breath that instantly vaporized and floated upward. "For the record, please state your name?" he asked, readying his pen.

The man just raised an eyebrow, slightly bemused. "Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but... arn't you DI Lestrade?"

Lestrade's head jumped up in surprise at the recognition. "Er, yes. And that doesn't exactly answer my question." He inclined his head apologetically.

"Of course." The man nodded slowly, observing Lestrade, evaluating him. Like he was some sort of lab rat. If Lestrade had been any other man, he would've felt compelled to shiver under the man's intense gaze. But he didn't. The only explaination? He knew Sherlock for _far_ too long. The man finally broke the silence. "I don't suppose telling you that 'you have no business in knowing my name', will daunt you in the slightest?"

Lestrade snorted and shook his head. "Nope, not in the slightest." he confirmed. "I'm a policeman, I'm nosey, it's kind of a job requirement." He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

He he so wished, Mycroft could have DI Lestrade fired on the spot for disrupting his precious few moments off work. He sighed, "Inspector, I doubt that my name would mean all that much to this case..."

Lestrade interrupted him by casually tearing a page from his notebook. "Off the records, then? Name?"

Mycroft's eyebrows jumped up on their own accord. Not only was the DI persistant, but he actually quite tolerable about it, although, bordering on brusque. Must be his character... Quite a wonder, considering the other officials from New Scotland Yard that Mycroft had the displeasure of meeting. "Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes."

Now it was Lestrade's turn to raise his eyebrows as he scribbled in his note. "You wouldn't happen to be..." _... the infamous older brother of Sherlock? _Then a neutral look. "No- no, you're definintely..." _... Well dressed, obviously intelligent, slightly egotistic, and just a little condescending. Of course you are. _A frustrated sigh. "Sorry, can you describe to me, what you saw here?"

Mycroft smiled at the DI's many expressions. "I didn't see anything, quite simply speaking." he admitted. "I was just on a walk when I saw people gathering, I heard the police sirens, and that was when Sherlock decided to rush by, chasing a slightly elderly man in a black raincoat." He nodded his head in the direction Lestrade saw Sherlock run. "As I observed, they went that way."

Lestrade scribbled a few lines on his wet notebook page. "Suffice it to say 'you saw just as much as we all did'." he looked apologetic. "Well, Mister Holmes, I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time." Then, with a slight nod, he began walking away. Then he stopped, and turned back. "By the way, strange choice of weather to be taking a walk, don't you think?" He smiled at Mycroft, waving his ripped-out page. "Off the record, of course."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the DI. "You seem to know more than you let on, DI Lestrade."

"Bit hard to know less, yeah?" Lestrade shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Thank you again, for your help." And he walked away.

DI Lestrade, Mycroft grunted to himself as he watched the man bow his head in self-depreciation as the ME walked the body past him into a van. Mycroft knew, that was the expression of a man who emotionally beat himself for not getting to the scene in time even though, it was obvious that he had done everything in his power to save the victim.

_Empathy._ That one expression was so alien to Mycroft. _Interesting._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Good evening, DI Lestrade." Lestrade nearly dropped his steaming cup of coffee. He put it down, very carefully, and looked up with a tired sigh at the man that had interrupted his well deserved coffee break. Been a _bad_ day.

"Mister Holmes." Lestrade nodded curtly in acknowledgement.

"Do you mind if I sit?" Mycroft pointed, with his umbrella, at the empty chair across the table from Lestrade.

"Should I brace myself for a long, slightly threatening conversation?" Lestrade rolled his eyes, he was quite proud of his self-control, but Sherlock was really pushing it recently! Always witholding evidence, sometimes, not even telling Lestrade what he was investigating. He had Sally and Anderson on the edge of their seats and it was Lestrade who had to listen to their childish rants at the end of the day.

At Mycroft's slightly reprimanding look, he let out a sigh. "Sit, please, it would be my pleasure." he near growled.

Mycroft sat.

There was a long stretch of silence while Mycroft did a preliminary examination of the DI before Lestrade finally caved in. "Did you want something?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "Coffee? Tea? ...Chai?" Something vaguely resembling a smile flitted across Mycroft's face before disappearing.

"Tea, thank you." Lestrade waved for the cafe waitress to come over and placed the order. "And a scone." Mycroft added, just as the young lady was about to leave.

Lestrade nodded at her with an apologetic look. "A scone for the gentleman, please." The lady nodded and left

They waited for the tea and scone to be delivered before pursuing any further conversation. "Do you have any idea why I'm here?" Mycroft asked after a dignified sip of tea.

Lestrade just looked at the mysterious man, eyebrow raised. "Well, the more publicly accepted reason would be 'for tea and scones' wouldn't it?" he grumbled. "Though, you're a Holmes, so I really wouldn't count on it being that." he rattled off casually.

Mycroft looked just slightly amused by his response. "Have you spoken to my brother recently?" he asked Lestrade.

"Why?" Lestrade asked mock-curiously. "Have _you_?" Oh, now he was just being childish!

"I'm concerned as to what he's gotten himself into now." Mycroft said, ignoring Lestrade's quip.

"Arn't we all?" Lestrade sighed tiredly. "Though, he's not talking to me about it, so it's probably a legally dark area. Meaning, I really don't want to know."

"You're not even a little bit curious?" Mycroft's brow wrinkled a little in puzzlement.

Lestrade let out an impatient groan. "See here?" He lifted his hand horizontally to his eye-level. "That's how deep I am stuck in my work... _on a good day_." He dropped his hand limply to his side. "When Sherlock gets involved in a case, it's usually _double_ that! I'm not going to risk that just to feed my curiosity." He slumped deeper into his seat. "You should see how much paperwork comes with your brother." he groaned in despair. "Have to write apologies for complaints filed against him. Bail him out of jail for breaking-and-entering, suspicious actions, disturbing the peace... And then there's always the trouble of having to cover his tracks on a crime scene to dispel suspicions from higher-ups. You have no idea!"

Mycroft frowned a little at the discouraged man. When Sherlock had first 'invented' his career, Mycroft had braced himself for trouble with authorities. He had been pleasently surprised when he learned that no complaints had been voiced, so far, by 'higher-ups' as Lestrade had called them. Who knew? Someone else was doing his job for him!

"Was I wrong?" Mycroft asked, "in thinking that Sherlock's knack for observation was a help on the field?" He inclined his head.

"No, no." Lestrade waved at him dismissively. "Sure, he's an annoying prat to work with." he admitted. "And, if my officers and I had his level of deductive skills, I would throw him out of the investigation without a second thought... but, we don't." Lestrade looked out of the cafe window with a dark frown. "And, God help us, we need all the help we can get." He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "And I'm not above asking Sherlock for it, either."

Mycroft nodded in sympathy for the distressed man.

Then, Lestrade glanced at his watch with a start and a groan. "Sorry, you will excuse me, I've got to go." He gathered up his coat from where he hung it on the back of his chair and dropped a few bills on the table. "Got to give a profile at the station. Crime never rests, and all. Afternoon. Enjoy."

"Going so soon?" Mycroft asked in slight surprise. "You haven't even been here for more than two minutes before I came."

Lestrade blinked, expression carefully blank. "Dear God, I hope you're not stalking me." Tone surprisingly neutral.

Mycroft shook his head. "No."

"You do this to everybody?" Lestrade asked suspiciously. "Just to intimidate them?"

Mycroft let out a low chuckle. "I do 'this' to everybody, yes. But to intimidate them? No."

Lestrade let that sink in for a moment. Then he nodded carelessly. "Okay, enjoy your tea and scones, anyway." And he began walking away.

Mycroft watched him go for a second. "Hm, not bothered by that in the least...?" he murmured, if Lestrade heard him, he made no inclination toward it. "Inspector!" Mycroft called out suddenly. Lestrade stopped and turned on his heel, raising an eyebrow in polite curiosity. Mycroft snatched up his umbrella from where he had hung it over the table's edge and extended it toward the DI, making no move to stand. "Looks like rain, doesn't it?"

Lestrade turned to look outside and observed the water-laden clouds. He sighed and walked back over to Mycroft, taking the umbrella with a slight nod of genuine appreciation. "Obliged." he murmured and walked out.

Sherlock, Mycroft knew, for a fact, would never know the pains the DI went through to keep him out of trouble. Lestrade was far too modest to tell anyone, and too professional to let any of his collegues know. One very importantly question hung in the air around Mycroft. All this trouble, why?

* * *

><p>"Oh. My. God." John swiveled around to catch Sherlock gaping unabashedly into Lestrade's office, ignoring the stares and frowns being directed his way.<p>

"What is it?" John asked curiously, wondering what had gotten his usually calm and collected flatmate's jaw sweeping the floor.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade asked, walking down the hall to meet them.

"Dear God in Heaven," Sherlock gasped again. "is that Mycroft's umbrella, on your desk?" he asked in amazement. "Why is it on your desk?"

Lestrade peeked around Sherlock's tall shoulders to see inside the room. "Oh, that, he let me borrow it earlier this afternoon." Lestrade told him.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and stared incredulously... for a long time. "Did you steal it?" Did the DI _not_ know the significance of the umbrella! It was _Mycroft's _umbrella, for God's sakes!

"No, Sherlock!" Lestrade sqwawked indignantly. "I did not steal it!"

"Mycroft never lets go of that umbrella, much less, lets other people touch it!" Sherlock persisted.

"Well, he offered it to me." Lestrade told him calmly. "I should know, I was there!"

Sherlock ran a critical eye over the DI, obviously looking for some kind of change in his behavior or expression. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and shook his head innocently in a way that meant 'Nothing to be seen here, Sherlock. I'm telling the truth!' Then Sherlock's eyes widened in epiphany. "_No! _You!" he sounded incredulous. Then a disgusted look. "Eww!"

John and Lestrade shared a bewildered look before turning back to Sherlock. "Mind elaborating?" Lestrade asked gingerly, not really sure he'd like the answer.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, aghast. "Dear God, do you really not know?"

"By your reactions, I'm not sure I'd like to know." Lestrade replied uneasily.

Sherlock just shook his head and grabbed John by the elbow, steering him away. "Nevermind, I'll let you two handle the... situation on your own." Then a feral smile grew across Sherlock's face. "Well, I've got a text to send to Mycroft... I'm never letting him live this down!"

And just like that, they were gone. Lestrade blinked after them in bewilderment, then he looked back suspiciously at the innocent-looking umbrella sitting on his desk, quite unsure of what to do with it.

"Aw, bugger it!" he groaned in frustration. "Why can't I get any normal aquaintances!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Well! Here we are again!" Mycroft smiled politely. "Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade smiled back, though forced, he really did endeavor. "Mister Holmes." He nodded respectfully. Then, he turned to Sally. "Well, then! There's a body in the toilet stall, charming! Where's Anderson?"

Sally's frown grew, if at all possible. "Outside, having a row with the freak, just like always." she responded with obvious venom in her voice.

Lestrade sent a careful look at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye and cleared his throat surreptitiously. "Donovan, careful what you say... especially within earshot of blood relatives."

Sally froze, then peered around Lestrade's body to glance at Mycroft. Mycroft just smiled at her, expression unreadable, and gave a slight nod. "Oh..." She flushed, turned, and walked away.

Mycroft waited for a good two seconds after Sally was out of earshot before leaning towards Lestrade, lowering his voice. "'Freak'?"

Lestrade groaned and rolled his eyes. "Yep. You know Sherlock. He doesn't even bother trying to get along with people he doesn't like." Lestrade glanced around to see if anyone of interest was nearby and he also lowered his voice. "And well, truth be told, Sherlock's a bit eccentric. My officers just haven't enough time to get used to him yet."

"And yet, you have?" Mycroft quieried curiously.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I try to only look at the ends, leave Sherlock to handle the 'means' bit, yeah? As long as his deductions are true and accurate, I'm happy... even though his prefered 'means' are somewhat... avant garde."

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders and nodded. No excuse there.

"And... speak of the devil." Lestrade sighed in exasperation, hearing shouts waft up toward the crime scene.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's baritone voice boomed out, echoing eerily in the toilet. "For the last time! I cannot work with Anderson ghosting over my shoulder to tamper with evidence!"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft heard John groan.

"What use is there, for a bloody ME, who can't even tell the damned difference between ligature marks on a murdered victim, and a suicide victim!" Lestrade coughed loudly, interrupting Sherlock's mad rant. "What!"

Lestrade pointed casually at Mycroft, who had an reprimanding eyebrow raised. "Your brother's here."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, scowling. "What... is he doing here?" he demanded.

"He's here for the case." Lestrade responded in a placating manner.

"Oh, and here I thought I was special." Sherlock snarked at him irrately.

"He's a witness." Lestrade clarified patiently.

Sherlock sent Mycroft an amazed look. "_You! _A _witness_!" He let out a laugh. "God, poor sod who has to take your statement, good job it's not me!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence!"

"He's never given me a truthful statement before." Sherlock warned ominously.

"Again, Sherlock, thank you." Lestrade took Sherlock firmly by the shoulder and steered him toward the bathroom. "Body, second stall, see if you can find it." Sherlock scowled at Lestrade but complied.

"Sorry." John apologized earnestly. "Sherlock's undergone one too many sugar experiments."

"Distraction?" Lestrade guessed.

John nodded in exasperation. "Needed to clean out the fridge."

Lestrade patted John's shoulder sympathetically. "Good man." Then he nodded to where Sherlock was waiting impatiently, tapping his foot at an alarming rate. "Better run after him."

Lestrade waited until Sherlock had his chance to examine the body in the toilet stall and had rushed off with John somewhere. Mycroft grimaced a little at the whirlwind of activity he called his younger brother. "Is he always like that?" he asked.

Lestrade started, almost forgetting that he had company. "Sherlock? Yeah, always."

"Remind me, why do you let him traverse your crime scenes?" Lestrade strode over slowly to examine the body in the toilet stall for himself.

"'For Queen and Country'." he read off the wall, grimly.

The words had been painted, in dark crimson, with the victim's blood.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"'For Queen and Country'..." John sighed, putting down the crime scene photo he was examining. "Seems like something Mycroft would get involved in."

Sherlock snorted. "Of course. Why did you think he was there?" John looked at him in bewilderment. "Oh, come on, John! Think! Mycroft was present at the scene of the crime! I very much doubt that Mycroft would go anywhere without one of his minions following, or, at least, watching him though the CCTV. He probably wasn't alone. He's not the type that meets someone in a populated area without good cause, you know this already." John nodded. "So he was meeting someone, and he needed to meet that 'someone' in a place where there would be many witnesses."

"So, the 'someone' he was meeting wouldn't pull any tricks?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Do you think that, the person Mycroft met was our killer?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, I'd go as far as to suggest that the man Mycroft met... was the victim."

John's eyes widened in concern. "Do you think your brother's in danger?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Well, if he is... good for him!" He smiled a little. "_Bad_ for the assassin, though. Mycroft does love his security systems."

"Hope you're right." John mumbled.

* * *

><p><em>And, here's to a long day! <em>Mycroft thought to himself with a sigh as he poured himself a glass of scotch. Been a long day. He threw his glass back and down its contents. He hadn't counted on his informant being killed, his informant had contacted him in a fit of panic but Mycroft had brushed his fears off as strained nerves.

And now he was dead.

An unfortunate turn of events, really. Mycroft sighed, blinking slowly down into his empty cup.

Then his head rose like a trained hound's would've. He smelled water, could almost _feel _the heightened moisture levels in the air. He put down his glass and silently slipped across the sitting room towards the bathroom.

He reached over and picked up his fireplace iron. He would've preferred the swordstick in his umbrella, but unfortunately, Lestrade still had it. A poker would have to do. He slowly pushed the door open, glancing inside. His bathtub was filled with steaming water, but there wasn't any sign of anybody hiding in there.

Funny, if someone had tried to break into his flat, one of his security staff would already be here with a warning...

Mycroft's sharp ears picked up a noise behind him and spun around just in time to meet a heavy, glass paperweight to the forehead. He lost consciousness before he hit the ground.

* * *

><p>He wasn't unconscious for long, just a few minutes, a quick glance at the grandfather clock situated in the hall told him. He bit back a pained groan and struggled to move but quickly realized, to his despair, that his brain still hadn't regain control over his body.<p>

He was thus picked up and dragged toward the bath by, good God, Mycroft could only summon up strength to catch a glimpse of the man's gloved hands around his chest. He had never felt more helpless in his life. He was moved to the side of the steaming container and heard the words 'for Queen and Country' hissed into his ear a moment before his head was plunged forcefully underwater.

But, to his relief, those words were not the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness again. The last thing he heard was a tentative knock at the front door and a "Hello? Is anybody there?"

He felt water rush down his throat and his eyes drifted shut.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

When Mycroft's eyes fluttered open, he found himself in an isolated hospital ward. He blinked, then dared a peek under his bedsheets. He whipped them back over himself with a groan. Good God, what happened to his clothes? And, what _was_ it he was wearing!

His panicked thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and Sherlock poked his curly dark head inside. He took one glance at Mycroft, smirked at his apparel, and disappeared again. "God help us, Satan's awake!" Sherlock announced in mock-horror and a few seconds later, a bland-looking doctor walked in, followed by a grumpy nurse.

"If you even _begin_ to entertain thoughts of subjecting me to a medical examination, I will make your lives a living Hell." was Mycroft's greeting words. He smiled kindly at them. "Now, pleasentries aside, where are my clothes?"

* * *

><p>To his <em>great<em> annoyance, Mycroft was still bedridden in hospital gowns by the time Lestrade dropped by to visit. Mycroft hadn't expected him to at all, but, he had to admit, it was a pleasant surprise. "How're you doing?" Lestrade asked when he poked his head through the door.

"Truth be told, I think the world would be a safer place, _devoid_ of one, John H. Watson." Mycroft grumbled.

Lestrade just smiled in amusement. "Can't exactly threaten him when he's the friend of Sherlock, can you?"

"Pity, I had the rest of the hospital under my control." Mycroft snapped his fingers in mock frustration. Lestrade chuckled a little, still standing in the doorway, Mycroft couldn't tell whether he wanted to get out, or in. "Might I ask, what you are doing here? Is it a case?" Mycroft inquired politely.

Lestrade shook his head. "Dr. Watson said it was obligatory..." Mycroft blinked, nonplussed. "...to stay and make sure the person I saved recovered well... or something like that."

Mycroft inclined his head. "You...?"

Lestrade nodded sheepishly, finally moving into the room fully, but still not nearing the bed. Mycroft noted that Lestrade was carrying his umbrella. "Yeah, I went to return this..." Lestrade waved the umbrella awkwardly. Mycroft was urged to wonder 'Now? Or... then?' As if hearing his thoughts, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Um, actually, I went by your house to drop it off..." Mycroft wondered, briefly, how Lestrade had managed to obtain his address in the first place. Lestrade trailed off a little before getting back on track. "...And then I heard a noise inside. It sounded like someone was drowning a cat, or something..." Lestrade's eyes widened and he looked apologetic. "I mean... "

Mycroft waved magnanimously. "I know the expression, Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade's shoulders sagged in relief.

"And so I got inside and found you on the bathroom floor." He finished his story there abruptly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I was... alone? No assailant?"

Lestrade shook his head with an innocent expression. "Nope."

"And, I suppose, you got that clip on your left brow and the bruise on your right elbow from... getting me off the floor?" Mycroft sent him a look that clearly meant 'do I look like a fool to you?'

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "You were almost drowned in your own home, you're in a hospital gown, being coddled by nurses, and Sherlock won't stop laughing at the whole situation. I thought I might try and spare what was left of your dignity."

"And, for that, I am most grateful." Mycroft huffed. "Just don't try to convince me with such blatant lies."

"I'll keep that in mind." Lestrade smiled, "And, sorry, but your assailant got away." He finally inched nearer to the bed and handed Mycroft his umbrella back. And with that, excused himself.

John and Sherlock chased each other in the very moment the DI's footsteps disappeared. "You met him a few days ago, and since then, you've had tea with him, given him your umbrella, and he's saved you from the clutches of death!" Sherlock smirked evily. "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" John snickered, but quickly covered it with a cough. Sherlock, however, laughed loud and unabashedly.

"Yes, we might." Mycroft quipped. "It will be of your funeral."

Sherlock pressed a hand to his chest. "Brother, dearest! You _wouldn't!"_

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Mycroft smiled mildly.

"Children..." John shook his head with a sigh.

* * *

><p>"So." Sherlock peered over Lestrade's shoulder with a strange smile.<p>

"So...?" Lestrade repeated inquisitively, rearranging the information in his dossier.

"About Mycroft." Sherlock goaded eagerly.

"Oh, yes, Mycroft." Lestrade finally looked up from his desk. "How is he doing?"

Sherlock frowned. "He's being a bloody nuisance!"

Lestrade snorted. "Right, undoubtedly." Anything Mycroft did would be seen as a nuisance to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked around the office. "Something's missing..."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Don't even pretend that you think there's something missing, but can't place what's gone. It doesn't suit you."

Sherlock scowled. "Alright! Alright! Where's the umbrella?" he caved.

Lestrade looked up at him amusedly. "Where it belongs, with its owner." He put his pen down. "What is the significance behind that umbrella, anyway?" he asked curiously.

"Safety and security, I suppose... and the occasional use for... _layingclaim_." Sherlock coughed awkwardly. Lestrade blinked that the consulting detective in such bewilderment that Sherlock guessed he didn't quite hear him. All the better for it too, he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It was a memento of our father, Mycroft completely idolized him."

"Shouldn't have given it to me, when he was in the most danger, huh?" Lestrade mused. "Quite thoughtful of him, though." Then he chuckled to himself a little. "Safety and security... that's what I have a gun for."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "I concur."

Lestrade sent him a reprimanding look. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Sherlock shrugged innocently. "Didn't hear what?"

* * *

><p>"I heard your assailant was some... disgruntled goverment spy, or something? Sherlock wouldn't tell me much." John said to Mycroft just as Sherlock entered the room dragging Lestrade in behind him.<p>

"And he would do well to keep it that way." Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "As I have recently learned, alot of that information we have is dangerous."

"You're not so intimidating when you're dressed in baby-blue hospital pajamas." Sherlock smirked condescendingly. "So don't even try."

Mycroft's responding look was positively beastly, then he collected himself. "When dressed in _abhorring_ 'hospital pajamas' I am at my most dangerous." he warned sweetly.

"Ooh, all talk, but can't perform." Sherlock snarked back.

"Erm, Sherlock?" John grimaced. "He's being legally discharged from the hospital today."

Sherlock's features paled. "Oh, goodie." he muttered.

"'Oh, goodie' indeed." Mycroft huffed just as Anthea walked in with a freshly starched suit and just was quickly walked back out.

"Yeah... we should leave now." John was quick to drag Sherlock out of the room before Mycroft could recover to his fullest level of intimidation.

That left Lestrade and Mycroft again. "Well," Lestrade scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "here we are... yet again." Mycroft snorted. "I heard they caught the guy who did... this, to you."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it seems they did."

"Homeland security." Lestrade grunted. "Handed the case over to MI5."

"Undoubtedly." was Mycroft's response.

"You don't seem very surprised." Lestrade pointed out.

"And neither do you, concerning the fact that I already know all this." Mycroft quipped.

"Well, I'm not actually supposed to know 'all this', per se."

"Again, I am struck by the thought that you know more than you let on."

Lestrade smiled slowly. "And again, it's a bit hard to know less, isn't it?" Then, "I might seem rude, but, ...why? If you don't mind me asking. If it's such a dangerous job, why do you do it?"

Mycroft thought on that question for a moment. "Probably, the same reason you do your own danger-rife, job." he smiled at Lestrade.

"For Queen and Country."

Lestrade had nothing further to say.

* * *

><p>The End.<p> 


End file.
